Hard as Lightening, Soft as Candlelight
by Ceci Webster
Summary: After the opera fire, Erik flees France to his childhood home in London where he learns the truth of his past and meets someone who will guide his future.
1. Chapter 1: Voices from a Forgotten Time

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything even remotely affiliated with the Phantom of the Opera including but not limited to: Gaston's book, Susan Kay's book, Andrew Lloyd Webber's Musical works, etc. **

Erik arrived at his manor on the outskirts of London, England just after midnight. As he steered his carriage toward the desolate looking place, he realized that he had forgotten just how large the house was. The rusted gate showed no traces of its once splendid visage as it shuttered against the blustery wind. The trees in the front yard had grown tall and overgrown with age almost entirely covering the roof of the three story manor. The once plentiful and immaculately groomed shrubs and gardens were now covered in weeds and remnants of the once glorious rose bushes. The path too had grown weary with age as the once brick-lined entryway was now covered with piles of leaves and dirt. It had once been such a grand place.

Erik shuttered as he remembered his childhood home. Even though he was forced to live away from his uncaring and ashamed family in a small, desolate room in the west wing, he had a full knowledge of this house. He would sneak out after everyone had gone to sleep and roam the gardens. His family cemetery lay just beyond his mother's backyard gardens. He remembered how he felt that it was the only place that he could run to.

Their voices trailed through his mind. He remembered the mornings when his younger sisters would observe their music lessons in the music room just below his own dreary bedchamber. Secretly, he would attend their lessons with them through a small hole in his floorboards. He could hear his younger brother screeching to get is way so that their wealthy father would buy him a new toy. Erik hated his siblings for getting the love and attention from his parents that he only dreamed of having. He remembered his mother pushing him away as he begged for her to hold him as she yelled that she was not his mother. The voices kept growing and growing until Erik let out a deranged scream into the unyielding night.

He had half a mind to turn around and leave this place, but he knew he had nowhere to go. He was a wanted fugitive in France, and even if he could find another house to buy with the substantial savings he had inside the carriage, he knew that he had nowhere to go tonight. The weeks of travel had taken a toll on his worn-out body. He yearned for nothing more than a soft bed to sleep in with or without the painful memories of his past.

His thoughts were once again filled with emotion as he remembered the fateful day when he received an unsigned letter, during his stay in Persia, informing him that his family had been killed in a shipwreck off the coast of Scotland. Although his heart felt no sense of loss for his wretched family, he was left with confusion as to why he had received the letter at all and how the sender knew his whereabouts. The envelope contained no return address or crest informing him of the origin. It merely noted the death of his family and the announcement that Erik was now the new Lord of Devonshire. Cursing his family for selling him as a slave to the gypsies, he vowed that he would never return to his childhood life. With that promise, he tucked the letter away in his private box and never thought about it again except on the night of the Opera fire.

He held the tattered paper in his hand as he once more looked upon the property. Even the abundant apple orchard to the east did not lift his spirits. He knew that no matter what horrid memories he had of this place, no one would ever find him here for this place had been long forgotten.

So, he geared his horses toward the stables knowing that he would never escape his past.


	2. Chapter 2: Battlecry

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything even remotely affiliated with the Phantom of the Opera including but not limited to: Gaston's book, Susan Kay's book, Andrew Lloyd Webber's Musical works, etc. **

Her face was as pale as the winter morning with her blonde curls nestled between two large bows surrounding her porcelain face. She was standing in the midst of the tirade amongst men dressed in military uniforms. Their dark roars to each other tore into the previously calm night. As the house behind her burned to the ground, he could make out faint images of nursemaids and servants being slaughtered in the crisp snowy night. Her face was framed in horror as she looked upon the blood-stained snow. She grasped her doll tightly once more until she let out a muffled scream as an elderly woman, dressed in servant rags, gathered her shaking form into her arms and fled into the night.

The house began to crumble beneath its foundation. The little girl gasped as she saw shreds of the roof plummet onto the ground. A tear streamed down her pale cheek in fear. She did not understand what was happening.

Perched upon the woman's shoulder, the little girl looked back at her home unknowing who had invaded her happy world. She heard her father's voice screaming toward the elderly woman as he was encased in battle. Through the sounds of the swords clashing against each other, she heard him cry, "Elizabeth! I love you! I will always love you!"

Moments later, she saw the sword pierce his flesh and the elderly woman disappeared with her into the darkness.

Erik woke up in a panic with his maskless face drenched in sweat. He looked around his room at the magnificent tapestries which surrendered no answers to the origin of his dreams. Not even the newly wound grandfather clock bared any evidence. The wind had picked up outside and the branches of the overgrown trees were knocking against the auburn shrouded window. The sky was still bleak as the snow began to fall.

Four A.M. He had gotten a whole three hours of sleep. Realizing that this was the most rest he would be getting this night, he lifted himself from the bed and lit a fire. He had resolved himself to the notion that he needed to hire servants as soon as possible to repair the manor. His face sneered as he pressed his finger on the dusty table and examined its contents. Although he felt rather welcome in the musty sinister room, his stubborn snobbish pride would not allow himself to live in such filth.

His mind quickly returned to the dream. _Who is this young girl crying in the midst of battle and why am I dreaming about her?_

Erik has expected to adhere to his own demons for the night. He had been prepared for another gypsy caravan flashback or even once again feel the sting of rejection from Christine's perfect lips. Erik wanted to forget it all.

He placed his mask upon his face and sought out to find a piano.


	3. Chapter 3: The Christmas Visitor

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything even remotely affiliated with the Phantom of the Opera including but not limited to: Gaston's book, Susan Kay's book, Andrew Lloyd Webber's Musical works, etc. **

The morning snow had fallen as the dutiful sun rose behind the barren apple orchard. Children from the houses down the road were awaking in awe of the winter landscape and hopes of presents, while servants traveled down the road to spend time with their families.

Christmas morning meant nothing to Erik as he continued on with his new composition. He had found the piano hidden in an old music room underneath piles of parchment, books, and inches of dust. He had taken such care to cleanse the instrument of its overburden. His masculine fingers gently caressed the keys to denote how much repair and tuning would be needed. He lifted the encasement to view the miraculously protected interior. The strings were all intact and the only hints of its disuse came from the dust that lay within.

Erik was unaware of the world. He droned on and on into the morning with his music neglecting to feed himself or seek out others to tend to his home. Hours passed and his aching body stayed seated upon the satin piano bench. Erik had been so engulfed in his music he had not heard the knock on his front door nor the steps upon the staircase or the feminine voice calling out.

The door opened the instant Erik released the keys. He beastly turned toward the creature standing in his doorway. She carried a basket far too large for her short stature filled with unknown heavy objects which caused her to carry it with two trembling hands.

"What you want?" he growled in French. After looking at her face he realized that she did not understand him. He repeated his question once more in English.

"Pardon my intrusion, dear sir," she began with well-sculpted English, "I had noticed that the stables were occupied this morning and well, since it is Christmas, thought that you would like this." She held the large basket out to him with a fearful smile on her face.

He stared at her youthful face. Her rosy cheeks paled the moment he spoke. He watched her with utmost focus and observation as he examined her riding boots up to her dark green wool dress to the clasp of her cloak around her neck and then to her frightened hazel eyes. He was unable to make out the delicate features of her face with the light of one miserable candle. Her breath lingered in the air as he noticed that he had been frantically working these last hours without a fire.

His eyes stared at the basket that he held out intently to him. Various wines, cheeses, and breads, chocolates, and other items had been neatly placed in such fashion. A growl let out through his stomach as he continued to peer into the basket.

He resolved himself to being a gentleman to her. True, she has trespassed upon his home. True, she had rudely interrupted his composition, but he was in England now, and his identity unknown. He did not wish to draw any sort of attention to himself by the nobles who lived in proximity to his home. Mystery would be alright, but a man frightening the daughter of a nobleman would make gossip.

He reached out for the basket and placed it on a chair beside his bookshelf. "May I ask you, my dear, why you are indeed away from your home so close to sunset without an escort? Unfortunate things happen to young ladies when they travel alone?" he questioned her.

He was shocked at his faux concern. She had half expected him to scream at her and demand she leave his home. She went to speak, but could only stand there with her mouth open.

"Cat got your tongue, my dear?" he rasped, "perhaps you can answer why you so rudely barged into my home and interrupted my work? A girl of your upbringing would surely have been taught better."

He saw her eyes blink several times. Her face grew angry as she spoke once more.

"My lord," she paused to collect her thoughts, "first of all, with regard to your question about my escort, my family seems to think that I am not in need of one traveling to your home because I live in the manor just beyond your apple orchard. However, I do not see how my escort is any business of yours. Secondly, the only reason I intruded into your home is because you or your servants never answered the door. I did, however, apologize. I also apologize for interrupting your work, but my God it is Christmas. The last thing in the world I expected anyone to be doing is working."

She inhaled once more bringing her hands around her waist as to assimilate warmth.

"Lastly, I am not a girl, although my face appears to be rather young, I assure you I am not. I am twenty-six years old and do come from rather good breeding if I do day so myself. My manners are not of your concern."

He was surprised by her independent nature. He had half a mind to slap her across the face for talking so coldly to him.

"Leave," he snarled as he sat once more at his piano.

"But sir," she began.

"Leave," he interrupted her, this time with an elevated volume.

Not wanting to risk further anger to him and realizing that the night was most likely upon them. She turned her heel and made her way out of the room.

"For what it is worth, my lord. Happy Christmas." she whispered as she closed the door.

He heard her steps down the stairs and out the front door. She did not hurry or stop to look upon any of the items in his home. He had wondered if she has ill intent, but reserved himself in the notion that women of high breeding had no such malicious attributes. He wondered why anyone would even consider visiting him on Christmas.


	4. Chapter 4: Blood Money

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything even remotely affiliated with the Phantom of the Opera including but not limited to: Gaston's book, Susan Kay's book, Andrew Lloyd Webber's Musical works, etc. **

A week after the incident with the girl, Erik had returned to his composition in hopes of possibly seeking English publication. Realizing that he could not continue work when the house around him was falling apart, he resolved himself to journey into town for workers and supplies. He had hired a crew of gardeners and maids to refurbish the manor to its past grandeur. Of these, he would choose the most skilled to continue work throughout the year. During his bout in town to find such laborers, he had come across a man called William who had recently been dismissed from his master's home. Upon inquiry of William, Erik found that he was rather grumpy and accustomed to running a household without the nonsense of a noblewoman. Erik was immediately delighted by this discovery and offered the man a butler position in his home.

He could once more see the winter roses as they were cleared from the weeds. William, per Erik's request, oversaw the remaining duties of the workers. If anyone understood a master's need for privacy, William was that man.

Now, back in the sanctuary of his music room, Erik once more placed finger to key and pen to parchment. The unsettling dreams he had been having continued to haunt him during the day. He could almost hear the marching of soldiers out his window and the cries of maidens running through the flames. His composition seemed to grow more sinister by the moment characterized with deep snare drums and almost impossible woodwind harmonies. He no longer had control. The dream seemed to compose for him.

Soon, the sun set once more and Erik was forced to put down his composition. He had not eaten properly since fleeing Paris, and his long nights without little more than an hour of sleep, had begun to take their toll on his rail-thin body. William's stern voice appeared at the entrance of the music room as if summoned by Erik's aching stomach.

"My lord. Do you wish to supper downstairs or will you be taking your meal up here?"

Erik paused for a moment and decided that he needed to get out of the room for a while. He rose from his piano bench and opened the door. William's stout figure and wrinkled face stared at his master sternly and with a hint of snobbery.

"I will sup downstairs, William. What is on the menu tonight?"

"I have had Rosemary make Cornish hen in a gingernut sauce with oven-fried potatoes, my lord. I assure you, the hen is well-seasoned." He replied almost as if wishing his master would invite him to sup with him.

"Very well. I shall be down in a few moments," he finished and closed the door once more.

Later that night, Erik found himself back in his parent's room. He stared at their wedding picture on the bedside table. Neither appeared to be rather satisfied, much less content in the portrait, however, Erik was a little aware of their arranged marriage, so he thought nothing of it.

The memories were fluttering back once more. He cursed himself for returning to this place when so long ago he swore to never return. So many horrible days passed in his youth, and he wondered if he had only been born normal, with a gentle visage like his father's, would he have been loved? Even the angry face of his mother seemed blurry to him now. His father's he could never seem to remember.

He recalled the night he had last seen his mother. It was a clear spring evening filled with the sounds of crickets and birds singing. He had been staring out his bedroom window, maskless, at the large round moon. He saw a rather tattered wagon pull up to his parent's front gate, as a profile of his mother scurried down the path. He could not properly listen to their conversation, but he heard the sound of coins jingle into his mother's hand. The man in the wagon seemed impatient and forcefully grabbed his mother's arm and threw her to the ground. Erik, instinctively, fled his bedchamber to the outside where his mother lay. He bent down to see if she was alright, when she fluttered from beneath his small hand.

"No, Erik." She growled from the ground. "Take him, he's yours."

Erik looked at his mother with a puzzled face questioning what made her actually breathe his name instead of referring to him as a monster, as the dark man grabbed the scruff of his shirt and lifted him from the ground. Erik could smell the ripe pungent odor of smoke and mold on the man as his glassy eyes moved across Erik's small deformed face.

"I know what I will call you, little demon," the man began in a sinister husky voice, "you will be a prime attraction. I can see it now. "Devil's Child," come and see the horror!"

He man let out an evil chuckle as he threw Erik into a cage at the rear of the wagon.

"Mum! Please… please don't let him take me. I…I will go back to my room…." The young Erik pleaded as his mother rose to her feet and wiped the dirt off of her face.

"You are no son of mine," she whispered as she collected the coins from the ground and walked back to the house.

"Get out of here!" she yelled at the dark man, "Leave before my husband comes home!"

Tears welled up in young Erik's eyes as the dark man chuckled once more and tugged at the reigns to leave. Erik's mother did not look back as she walked up the trail into her mansion. Erik could do nothing more than sob as the mansion slowly disappeared out of sight.


End file.
